


Who Hears You

by honorarytenenbaum



Category: British Actor RPF, British Comedy RPF, The Mighty Boosh (TV), The Mighty Boosh RPF
Genre: F/M, SO, and jack stauber's voice reminded me of richard, i hope you like music and richard ayoade, i just want a musician fan fic, yeah - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-28
Updated: 2021-02-08
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:34:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26699872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honorarytenenbaum/pseuds/honorarytenenbaum
Summary: Chuck’s life is every “Empire Records” fangirl’s dream. But when working at the records store got tedious, it felt less of a dream and more of a job. That all changed one open mic night when she heard The Sad Dads for the first time.
Relationships: Richard Ayoade/Reader
Comments: 3
Kudos: 11





	1. Track 001: “Oh Klahoma”

**Author's Note:**

> Chuck’s life is every “Empire Records” fangirl’s dream. But when working at the records store got tedious, it felt less of a dream and more of a job. That all changed one open mic night when she heard The Sad Dads for the first time.

Anyone who watched “Empire Records” or “High Fidelity” too many times dreamt of working at a record store.

My job was a dream job for a couple of months. You’re around music all the time, discounts on records, first eyes on new releases, and the like. It took me a couple of months to believe it was great.

But that’s the thing with dream jobs. Once capitalism hits you hard, it’s just another job.

There are three types of people who enter Mad Sounds; kids who pose in front of the records for the ‘gram and elitists who mansplain your job for you, then try to get your number in the process. I’ve accepted my fate and poor decision making. Music can only make life bearable for so long.

Like what Rebecca said in “Ghost World,” some people are okay, but mostly I just feel like poisoning everybody.

“That’ll be 20 quid,” I fake a smile to a customer who didn’t give a shit if I was happy or not. Snatching the paper bag out of my hands, they went on their merry way. I let out a long sigh to defuse my inner work rage. At this point, I believe the service industry folks should be canonized as saints.

While nobody needed my cashier skills, I decided to switch up the playlist in our record store. I turned away from the counter and faced our Motorino besides our in-house record collection. In my head, I tried to read the room’s vibe so the perfect needle drop can be achieved.

Depeche Mode? _Nah_.  
Manic Street Preachers? _Could be.  
_Pulp? _Fuck me, of course._

I picked up our copy of “Different Class,” gently removing its jacket. I placed the previous record gently on the counter. Once I dropped the needle on the fresh record, “Mis-Shapes” started to fill the room.

Curating our playlist might be the last joys of my job. Is it delusional of me or just sad?

“Poppet!” a familiar voice called my attention. Before I turned around to face it, I already knew who it was. “Hiya, Noel,” I greeted him with the warmth left in my body. As per usual, one of my favorite regulars looked like Robert Smith’s illegitimate child.

“What’cha lookin’ for today, crow boy?” I gave him my usual follow-up. As his mind wandered on why he came to us in the first place, I noticed a weirdly familiar man who just caught up with him. A friend? A partner? Unsure. He probably had been here before.

How do I word it? Beside Noel, he looked like his legal advisor. It’s the sharp suit and thick-rimmed frames that gave it away. “Actually,” Noel pulled his companion closer to the counter. “I was hoping you can help him.”

The stranger couldn’t even look at me in the eye. However, he mustered enough courage to wave his hand. He had an acoustic guitar behind his back and a bike helmet on his head. With all of this silence, he left me to do my deductions on what kind of person he was.

So far, I honestly have nothing apart from his dread for social interactions.

“You have open mic tonight here, yeah?” Noel beamed. I gave him a tired smile and shrugged. “Of course, what else would we host on a dull Wednesday?” Lifting the clipboard, I grabbed a nearby pen and prepared myself to list down whatever band he was in now.

“What’s your band’s name this time?” I asked him without looking up from my clipboard. “Electric Moccasins,” he beamed. “Unfortunately, we’re not making our debut tonight.” He stopped my pen from writing any further.

Looking up at this unique duo, my eyes shifted from Noel to his friend. “I’d… may I?” he softly asked. I smiled to put him at ease and let him list down on our sign-up sheet. “Can’t believe it. Finally, you’re performing!” Noel shook his friend’s shoulders.

His friend chuckled at Noel’s antics and shook his head. A small smile crept on his face, which stayed for a couple of seconds. Was it weird that I found him charming? Or am I just lonely?

“Thank you,” he handed the clipboard over to me. He is refreshingly polite and gentle. So used to Noel’s big goth kid energy around the store, I didn’t expect him to hang around someone square.

“Chuck, you’re gonna love him!” Noel beamed as I read the signup sheet. “He sounds like Daniel Johnston meets David Byrne, but like a little bit of Graham Coxon,” he motioned his hands to emphasize his comparisons. “Alright, alright,” his friend muttered as he erratically ruffled his hair.

“The Sad Dads?” I read it aloud. “Oh, so you’re with a band?”  
“Uhh, no it’s just me,” Noel’s friend interjected.

“One sad dad?”  
“Just one, I’m afraid.”

I chortled over his dry humor. Hopefully, he was smart enough to realize I was laughing with him, not at him. “What happened to the other dads?” I continued our banter. “Don’t need them. Got enough sadness to fuel three dads.” We shared our first smile, forgetting that we’re blanking Noel completely.

“Alright, alright. You two can flirt at the show later,” Noel whisked his friend away. “See you later, Chuckie!” they both turned away from the counter to head out. I waved goodbye even though they couldn’t see me. Force of habit, I believe.

I gazed at the clipboard again, tracing his friend’s handwriting. The Sad Dads but with just one dad. I tapped on the board and bit my bottom lip.

This might be an interesting evening if Noel’s a man of his word.

When the sun came down, the record store turned into an open mic hot spot. Business might be quite slow during the day. That’s all copasetic and everything. If Mad Sounds guarantee anything, it’s that fresh music begins with their open mic.

To a newcomer, our open mic crowd was surprisingly large. Why wouldn’t it be? You got craft beers by a couple of coolers and live acts for a cheap price of buying any record. It’s a good way to end your hump day.

“Alright, that was Carr Accident,” I rolled my eyes at the name. Jimmy was a great musician and all. There was no doubt about that. I, too, am a sucker for a post-punk revival threesome with women like Suzie and Rachel on deck. But fuck me, the man can be full of himself.

I gazed at the packed crowd in our quaint record store that night. Seeing Noel and Julian within the sea of people, I gave them a quick smile and they waved in exchange. “Next is a solo act with a full band’s name,” my small quip caused the crowd to chuckle. “We have a first-timer here, folks. Give it up for The Sad Dads!”

I clapped to encourage the public as I exit stage left. While exiting, I caught his attention as he was setting up his drum machine. I mouthed ‘good luck’ and flashed a smile before leaving him in the limelight.

I joined the rather unexpecting crowd to watch him. That’s the charm of open mic nights, I guess. No one knows if an act can ruin their night or make it memorable.

“Hello,” he gripped onto his guitar tightly. “I’m Richard and yes, there’s only one sad dad. But I think my sadness of three can compensate for the lack of other members.” Scattered waves of laughter filled the room as he did his set banter.

“Anyway, here’s ‘Oh Klahoma,” he set up his first song. Taking a deep breath, he queued the drum machine beside him. It started slow and none of us knew what musical journey he was going to take us on.

Then, he strummed his electric guitar. His nervous, paranoid, yelping vocals were reminiscent of a Talking Heads’ track. What he played echoed the influence of “This Must Be The Place (Naive Melody). After Carr Accident’s rambunctious set, Richard’s performance was the calm we sought out for.

His set presence was awkward. Some might say too awkward, but I felt it played in his favor. His little nuances like ruffling his hair and biting his fingers in between lyrics gave his performance character. As for the lyrics, it was childish yet poignant.

_Tears falling down at the party  
Saddest little baby in the room  
Fears, tell me fears, don’t get me started  
I get a little grey hair for every scare you share_

I watched him completely awestruck. His sound doesn’t fall under the mainstream’s favor. It’s quite niche, yet refreshing. If he was niche, that night I realized I was in his fucking niche corner.

He stopped strumming and cupped the mic as he sang. Clearly, he found his zone through the melodies he played. He shook off the stage nerves once he got his footing.

_I hear your eyes and I see those cries  
I hear those eyes and I see those cries  
I can’t be the only one who hears you_

When he sang the bridge, he was looking at me. It wasn’t by accident this time around. He wasn’t just gazing at me through his horn-rimmed frames. He saw me.

My mouth fell agape after that bridge. Although three minutes had passed, it felt like time moved so slow when he sang that. I came into my senses when the crowd erupted with applause.

I immediately ran to the stage to not miss my cue. Hiding my awe with a wide grin, I clapped enthusiastically with everyone. “Wow, give it up for The Sad Dads.”

Three other acts came after him. Quickly, I lost interest to hear those who followed him. I just nursed a beer for the rest and waited for my hosting cue. I saw him run to Noel and Julian when he packed up. Hearing him getting showered with praise, I knew he took it with a sheepish smile and a shrug.

After everyone performed, I set up a playlist without our Motorino. I wasn’t exactly a DJ but I am knowledgable enough to read a room and give the crowd what they want. My curated playlist consisted of Talking Heads, The Replacements, and my de facto go-to band, The Cure.

I decided to join Noel and his friends once the playlist hits. But as I headed to one of the coolers to get some beer, I ran into the sleeper hit of the night. He tapped me gently on the shoulder to get my attention.

“Uhh, you’ve ran out I’m afraid,” he ran his free hand through his curly locks. “You can have mine, if you’d like. I don’t mind.” Without a missing beat, he handed over his bottle. “That’s enough liquor consumption for tonight.”

I gave him a warm smile and accepted his offer. “You’re not the type to slip a roofie onto people’s drink now, are you?” I chuckled before taking a sip. “Afraid that lifestyle doesn’t suit me. Don’t have any machismo for that.”

The rhythm of our banter made us laugh. I took a sip of his cold beer and sighed. Savoring the bitter taste of malt, I happily sighed at how the night turned out. He quietly observed me as the two of us tried to come up with more to say.

“You were great out there.”  
“I’m just glad I didn’t trip over the wires.”  
  
“Not good at compliments?”  
“Terrible at them. I’m better with insults.”

We stood there and talked for hours, so it seems. The crowd had dissipated and Noel’s gang didn’t try to chime in for the rest of the night. A part of me wanted to arouse suspicion, but I truly enjoyed his company.

_I hear your eyes and I see those cries._

With laughter and smiles exchanged through the evening, its meaning slowly dawned on me. Richard, to much of my surprise, sees me. Effortlessly.


	2. Track 002 - We Are Going to Be Friends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You already had me at Meg White.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s been quite some time. Anyways, I’m back Richard stans. I hope you like fluff and The White Stripes.

In true me fashion, nothing happened between Chuck and me that night. 

We chatted for hours until people left. I helped her clean up with Noel, although he just spun records while we worked. We said our goodbyes. She said her compliments about my music and we called it a night. 

No cell in my body screams indie Casanova. No one looks at me and claims I’m a ladies' man. Hell, I am barely a man if that’s any indication. 

But when I was on stage, looking at her awestruck, she made me wish I was. 

I found myself going back to Mad Sounds more often than I should. I’ll buy records I barely need, browse records I already have, and do anything in my power to get her to talk to me. Problem was I had little power to begin with. Good thing she had enough pep to carry a conversation through. 

“Oh cool, I love The White Stripes,” she commented while holding my bought copy of “White Blood Cells.” I gave her a polite smile, letting her read off the vinyl jacket. “What erm.. what song do you like off of that?” 

She looked up at me, caught slightly off guard with my follow up question. I usually keep it curt when I go to her store. I purchase, give off a polite smile, and walk away. Whatever bravado I had to talk to her during the open mic was somehow lost. Every time I go to her store, I attempt to reclaim it. 

It never works. Honestly, I’m so fed up with the everything about me. 

She slid my record which she placed on a brown bag. “Try ‘Apple Blossom,’” she recommended. “It’s one of my faves hands down.” I nodded, failing to sustain eye contact. 

“I’ll… I’ll give it a listen,” I changed my polite smile to a genuine one. I gave her an awkward wave before walking off with a record I already own. Yup, here I am again, wasting another chance. 

I’m getting tired of myself. Missing my chances and walking off opportunities. Being a recluse is great for someone like me until I missed out too much. Sometimes, just sometimes, I wish I give life a shot. 

Then out of nowhere, my mouth ran off without my anxious brain holding it back. “Listen to it with me?” It came off more of as a question than a statement. It wasn’t loud enough to be understood, but it was audible enough for her to catch my invitation. 

“Come again?” she asked me to repeat it. I turned around, watching her walk away from her counter to approach me. I feel my cheeks heat up. Clearing my throat, I blurted out my invitation once more. 

“Uhh… you can walk me through this record yourself?” I suggested. “We can go to my place, grab a cold one, rave on about Jack’s lyricism, and rant about the underrated stylings of Meg White.” The last suggestion made her chuckle. In the end, she folded her arms and nodded yes.

“Would Noel be there?”  
“No plus ones, I’m afraid.”

She quirked her brow at my sudden gall to ask her out. Whether she perceived this as a platonic invitation or a chance at romance, it’s all up to her. She RSVP’d to my invitation with a thumbs up. 

“You already had me at Meg White.” 

If I would put a description of my flat on paper, one sentence was all it took: Barely been seen by possible romantic interests. A total of three people have entered my life. They differ from one another in terms of personality, race, and even gender at one point. One similarity they had was they came and went. 

Emotional constipation is a great relationship dealbreaker. I’m not great at dealing with them, not great with expressing them either. But every relationship I had, I tried my damnedest to master it. I always failed when it mattered the most. 

There’s nothing special about my flat. No one will be surprised to find a couple of musical instruments, a few framed posters, a filled bookshelf, and a rather extensive record collection in it. It was neat as it is expected of me. 

Like what my Twitter bio indicates; I’m a self-described beatnik, not a savage. 

After I extended Chuck my invitation, we exchanged contacts. I still couldn’t believe I had the gall to take a risk. But the real kicker was her yes. I anticipated her arrival for days. Of course, I tried to not appear overzealous. 

We agreed to do it on her day off. She didn’t want to go to work wasted. Or at least, that was her reasoning when we began texting. I rarely do text. Usually, I keep them brief and curt. I’m not a fan of receiving phone calls. But I do prefer them over the societal conventions of DMs. 

On the day itself, I stared at my reflection in the mirror. I wore stripes as I usually do, a good pair of jeans and some sensible brown shoes. Smart casual. Whatever that phrase truly meant. 

The more I looked at myself, the more I see flaws. People say, even cynics, that there is one aspect of themselves they can find endearing. I checked both of my profiles and let out a grunt. The only thing I liked about myself was my audacious film and record collection.

“How pathetic is that?” I asked myself. If my reflection could respond, it would’ve shrugged back. 

I went through a mental checklist. Beer on the fridge (since wine is too forward), record on deck, and a pseudo pleasing personality. Two out of three isn’t that dreadful. Well, I hoped not. 

A notification sound stopped me from drowning in my thoughts. Grabbing the phone in my pocket, I checked if it was her. _Shit, I might be lost_ , it read. 

Furrowing my brows, I pocketed my phone and walked to my front door to aid her. Where could she have gone? The council flat isn’t that big. It’ll be fine, probably. 

But once I turned my doorknob, I got my answer. Chuck stood there in mid-knock. She gave me an awkward smile as we exchanged hellos. “I guess I got the right door after all, thank fucking Christ.” 

She made herself feel welcome immediately. Handing bought canned G&Ts from M&S to me, she came inside my flat, eager to take space. It’s no secret that she’s more forward than me. More often, she’s more forward than I’m accustomed to. 

Juggling this thought brought me to my opinion on summer dresses. I find it peculiar when women wear summer dresses out of season. But when it comes to her, things that lacked logic to me suddenly made sense. 

Chuck purveyed my personal space. If I never understood the pressure chefs felt around Gordon Ramsey, I might’ve had an idea right after this experience. I moved past her to place the G&Ts on the fridge. In my peripheral vision, I saw her observe my posters as if it hung on MoMa. 

“Rohmer, huh?” 

“Well, they were unfortunately out of Michael Bay posters.”

“Ah yes,” she shifted her focus on me. “The modern American auteur.” We exchanged sly smiles. I closed my fridge and walked towards her. “I do believe ’Transformers’ is our new ‘Citizen Kane.’” She chuckled at my quip, taking a few more steps to approach me. 

We stared at one another, quite unsure of myself on where to take it from there. 

“I may have… done something wrong on the way here,” she bit her lip. Now, that’s unfair. It doesn’t matter what she have done now. How the hell can I not forgive her with an adorable face like that? 

I folded my arms and quirked my brow. “I ran into Noel… and I may or may not have told him that I’m coming here.” Her confession made my heart sank a bit. “He might come over in a bit?” 

That’s on me. Well, I guess when taking risks, I should be clear about what’s on the fine print. I gave her a reassuring smile and shrugged. “The more the merrier,” I lied. 

She observed my expression for much longer than I would’ve appreciated. In a desperate attempt to hide my disappointment, I let my gaze wander off elsewhere. Little did I know, she was moving towards me. Closer and closer and closer. 

“Don’t get too sad, Sad Dad,” she said in a low whisper. “I just wanted to know if this was a date or not.” 

Giving me a wink, she motioned over the couch, leaving me stunned. She left me alone for a bit to put two and two together. 

I’m not a fan of surprises. I don’t like the unexpected as much as the next person. In all aspects, we seemed like polar opposites. Our personalities on paper shouldn’t pair off well. 

_The teacher thinks that I sound funny  
But she likes it when you sing_

Jack White crooned in the background. I bit my lip to suppress my smile. Looking over at the girl on my couch, I saw her staring back, beaming. 

“'You have to promise you won't fall in love with me,” she faked sincerity, quoting an overtly sappy Nicholas Sparks film. I walked behind the couch and sat by her side. 

“That’s fine,” I nodded, speaking in the sarcastic language we claim to share. “I don’t fuck on the first date, anyway.”

Out of all the songs I’ve heard and written, the sound of her laughter has beaten them all.


	3. Track 003 - Head Over Heels

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Happiness should be my automatic response. If a person learned they’re the reason behind someone’s smile, a million butterflies charge their stomach. 
> 
> It’s too bad I’m not a fan of butterflies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, have a cute chapter on me.

Love is a bourgeois emotion—and I am but a working glass child.

Since swinging by his flat, I found myself hanging out with Noel’s friend more and more. I’m a firm believer that there’s no harm in playful flirting and dry sarcastic banters. It’s a second language the both of us seemed to be fluent in. And so, we started orbiting around each other’s air space more and more. 

Richard was now an undeniable Mad Sounds’ regular, while I became a staple in his gigs. I casually ask him to swing by my nine-to-five stopping grounds once in a while. As for him, he manages to mention his pub gigs in conversations. Both of us didn’t weigh any obligation to our invites. Still, I’d like to believe we secretly want the other to say yes every time.

We watched from the sidelines as our circle of friends began to intersect. It shouldn’t have come as a surprise to either of us, we met through a mutual friend after all. Noel established the connection between us. That’s when I met Chris, then he met Katherine, I met Matt, then he met Alex—and the inane cycle of adult friendship went on.

This cycle led us into work outings and spontaneous weekends with a tight-knit group. Usually, I’m a homebody when Friday night strikes. But this was the circle that really made me say “fuck it” every time. 

I never really knew what goes inside his head. Still, I’d like to believe he felt the same way. He has to. 

Otherwise, it’ll mean he’s a massive introvert with a penchant for karaoke.

_She signed the letter  
All yours  
Babooshka, babooshka, babooshka ja, ja  
All yours  
Babooshka, babooshka, babooshka ja, ja_

Noel and I belted Kate Bush’s “Babooshka” at the top of our lungs. We weren’t on key, we barely sang it without slurring, and we never sang the chorus without spinning in circles. The rest of our friends watched us in amusement and didn’t say a word. 

Mad Sounds came to life after hours. Of course, the record store is the home of London’s subculture, audiophiles, and the like during day time. But at night, it shelters its patrons and guardians; from open mics to listening parties. 

And of course—closed door karaoke nights. 

It’s been a Mad Sounds tradition way before I came in. No customers allowed, only employees, friends of the store and whoever Alex is shagging at the time. I managed to convince Richard to come. The everything about him doesn’t scream “karaoke enthusiast.” 

But to much of my surprise and everyone else’s, he tagged along anyway. 

I danced like the record store was empty. Usually, I’d leave my dancing to the bedroom. This special karaoke night made my brain scream “fuck it.” Was it because I wanted to devoid myself of thought? Or was it the company of others? 

I wasn’t entirely sure. However, the only thing I was certain of was the power of Kate Bush compelled me to belt and move. None of the watchful eyes petrified me. Hell, not even my boss’ gaze. 

We let the power of Kate Bush wash over us. I didn’t fear the gaze of others. And if I did fear anyone’s opinion of me that night, it’s reserved for Richard. 

Our eyes met while I was in mid-spin. And with the blurriness swirled in motion, I managed to catch a glimpse of his genuine smile. I love seeing this deadpan grin. 

At that moment, I realized I love that grin even more if I’m the reason behind it. 

Happiness should be my automatic response. If a person learned they’re the reason behind someone’s smile, a million butterflies charge their stomach. It’s too bad I’m not a fan of butterflies. 

Butterflies and mixed signals were both of my pet peeves. 

Whenever Richard and I go anywhere, it’s an unspoken agreement that he’ll take me home. He didn’t need to do it. I explained that it’s unnecessary. Still, he ends up insisting. And I end up saying yes. 

“Y’know I was hoping to hear at least Tears for Fears impression from you,” I jested while we walked to the bus stop. The night air was cold and unforgiving after Mad Sound’s karaoke shindig. In response, he draped his coat over my shoulder without explanation. And I took it out of curiosity of what his warmth felt like. 

He snickered as he walked by my side, “Hmm, you’d have to pay me a quid to hear that.” I laughed at his dry wit making an automatic appearance. Bumping my shoulder playfully against his, I shook my head and thought of my rebuttal for a good second. 

“Not even for me?” I looked up at him while batting my eyes. I expected a hearty chuckle out of him. What came my way instead were a pair of flushed cheeks and diverted gaze. Did I embarrass him? Or flatter him? 

Hell, what do I know? No matter how comfortable he was around me, Richard remained an enigma. 

The bus home arrived before he can utter a word. As the door opened, our playful banter came to a close. He let me go in first and he followed. When we found our seats, I didn’t bring it up again. 

During our ride on the way to my flat, I pondered over a thought. It’s a thought that’s been bothering me for a while. The thought was childish. If I’m being frankly cynical, it’s downright stupid. 

What do Richard and I really owe to each other? It’s hard to read him. More so, these moments between us were harder to decipher. I’m too young to understand the complexities of love. But I’m too old and tired to entertain a chase that might lead to nowhere. 

I like being around him just like this; nights spent together, doing the most mundane activity—commuting. Outside looking in, commuting with a friend wasn’t special. Listening to music on the weekends, meeting up at a cafe, and hanging around with friends of friends weren’t special either. 

The only thing special about these inane activities was him. 

I don’t know if he knew that. And I guess, the sad part was I don’t know if he needed to. The time I cherished between us might just be another Tuesday for him. 

Without warning, I rested my weary head against his shoulder. I held onto his arm as my eyes fluttered shut. I expected him to gently push him away. He did love his personal space after all. 

But the ride home went on without him depriving me of comfort. 

“Electric Moccasins, I always love you… even if you change your band name… again,” I rolled my eyes over my silly open mic quip. Noel left the stage while Richard remained. The crowded record store roared from their post-punk stylings, still echoing from the amplifiers. 

I clapped alongside the crowd as I prepped myself for another introduction. “But as much as I love me some Electric Moccasins, I do have a thing for sad dads,” the crowd laughed in response. “My dating life would be easier if I was kidding, but I’m not.” 

Hearing Richard’s light giggle from behind me, it calmed my nerves and pressed on. “Okay, that weird anecdote wasn’t entirely for nothing,” I explained. “Get ready for another Mad Sounds regular. Give it up for The Sad Dads!” 

I wooed with the crowd to heat them up, paving way for Richard’s performance. As per usual, I joined Noel and the rest to watch our friend do his thing. Noel handed me a lukewarm beer once I settled in. Clinking our bottles, he leaned in to whisper in my ear. 

“What’cha think his groupies are called?” He chuckled. I followed suit with a swig of my beer, “Hmm, haven’t thought about it really.” I shrugged and crossed my arms. “Lonely sugar babies?” 

The laughter we shared drowned out Richard’s crowd banter. So when we diverted our attention to his first song, I lacked any context. I wished I knew what he said. Maybe I wouldn’t be as shocked as I was when I heard him play.

His electric guitar cried an overtly familiar melody. With the drum machine by his side, my mind began to understand what my ears just picked up. I was certain my heart leaped up to my throat once he opened his mouth to sing. 

_I wanted to be with you alone  
And talk about the weather  
But traditions I can trace against the child in your face  
Won't escape my attention_

When I danced to Kate Bush, the only person that I wanted to watch me was him. I guess that’s what went through his mind when he chose this song. Maybe it’s not a quid that he wanted after all. 

_I'm lost in admiration, could I need you this much?_

The crowd dissipated in my head while he crooned Tears for Fears. “Oh, you're wasting my time. You're just, just, just wasting time,” he sang with vigor, meeting my stunned gaze. He belted the chorus and the whole store joined in—except for me.

All this time I was left confused about where we stand. Am I mistaking platonic emotions as brewing romantic entanglements? Is our bond convenient or genuine? Always more questions, all unanswered. 

_Ah, don't take my heart, don't break my heart  
Don't, don't, don't throw it away_

He broke his gaze to release a familiar guitar riff. With the crowd going buck wild, I stood there unmoving. More questions in my mind were still left unanswered. 

But with one cover of a New Wave anthem, he just answered the most important one.


End file.
